


Stand By Your Man

by hitlikehammers



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dark Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-12
Updated: 2009-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actions always have consequences. Commander Spock learns this the hard way. <b>Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009). Warnings for minor physical violence.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand By Your Man

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://blcwriter.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://blcwriter.livejournal.com/)**blcwriter** 's prompt for “a Spock & McCoy "Bitch, you marooned my BOYFRIEND on Ice Planet Hoth!" fight fic with Jim getting all "wha?" and woobie-faced and all that schmoopy shit.” 
> 
> Deliberate OOC-ness and canon-twisting abound.

The door closes violently without Spock ever noticing it’d been opened in the first place. In retrospect, that was likely the first sign that something was amiss.

“Doctor McCoy,” he speaks mildly to the space that yawns between them, not to the doctor himself, and his sharp eyes barely flicker to take the man in where he stands across the room, weight on his heels and arms folded tight across his chest.

“You may have these pussy-footing greenhorns scared shitless,” comes the growl that makes the office seem suddenly far too small, “but you and those elf ears of yours sure as hell don’t intimidate me.”

And Spock’s studied human behavior long enough to know what this is, so he lays the PADD in his hands down upon his desk with a sigh, folding long fingers with purpose across the blank screen, his brow poised with a deferential condescension that boils hot in the good doctor’s blood; a molten steel fueling the flames.

“Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

McCoy doesn’t respond at first, taking in the veiled disdain, the insult in the use of title, fingering keepsakes of a lost planet with mild disinterest as he saunters to the left and right of the doorway, willfully ignoring the way Spock’s eyes widen just a bit as the doctor’s palm covers the nodular outcropping of a traditional Vulcan sculpture his mother had sent along for a “planet-warming gift,” as she’d termed it. “Yeah,” he says softly to the polished curl of an impressionistic limb on the piece, trailing the stubs of his nails across the surface; “you can help me.”

“If you would please refrain from touching my possessions without permission,” Spock interjects shortly, his throat tight with the way McCoy’s thumb lingers, deliberately baiting him; he watches with focused attention as the hands retreat, lower to his sides, clench into fists so tight that the pressed crescents at the heels of his palms are deep enough to breach the depths, visible as the sweat slides his nails against the skin. And Spock understands.

“Did you come here with the intention of rendering me incapacitated, Doctor?” Sharp eyes dart from the kind of skilled fingers that coil with a power borne less of physical strength itself and more from the intimate knowledge of just where and how to exert it. “I was under the distinct impression that you took a solemn oath precluding such assault.”

McCoy doesn’t say anything - doesn’t need to; his eyes darken, and Spock has the good sense to divert his gaze. He stands, hands tented against the surface in front of him before he emerges from behind his desk, facing his accuser directly, man to man, ever cognizant of the unseemly fingerprints he’s left on the marbled desktop, just visible in his peripheral vision.

“Furthermore,” Spock continues warily, “while I would estimate your strength as slightly greater than average for your species,” sharp eyes trail down the crimson-clad frame in estimation, deftly avoiding those blazing hazel orbs; “I am compelled to remind you that the physical capacity of any Vulcan would vastly outstrip your own.”

“You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you,” McCoy says with a deceptive smile, one that belies the way his eyes narrow, the way his tone stretches to breaking, pulled taut and unmoving, unyielding; the way his brows slope to the point where Spock can see nothing but the endless black of the other man’s pupils for the shade of his eyelids - the glint of the fading light like the moon in their depths.

“I merely state the facts, Doctor,” and he dares to meet those eyes as they widen just a hair, flaring with his breath; to see the wrathful, nigh _maniacal_ gleam shining emerald at their cores - and there’s the promise of death in those eyes, Spock is certain of it, though logic can only take him so far in discerning what such a highly emotional reaction might mean. “I would assume that any respectable member of your profession would appreciate such objectivity. Your chagrin is therefore most incongruous.”

“Incongruous?” The word is lazy, mocking in that drawl, and it would be a lie for Spock to deny that he finds it strangely fascinating. “Maybe to your half-assed comprehension of what it means to be human.” There’s a quirk of lips that Spock barely catches, but it’s telling - a sneer, accompanied by a subtle shift of weight - demanding, threatening, and Spock can’t help but find the posturing a bit absurd. “But I think you’ll find there’s a whole hell of a lot about me that doesn’t quite fit the mold.”

“Was there something you wanted?”

“Have you spoken to Jim Kirk since we got back to Earth?” The doctor's voice is stiff, strained - holding something back, something that weighs with enough force to cause the whole room to quiver between them with the tension, that apprehension that forever laces the brink; Spock feels its fingers on the length of his spine, cold and unforgiving, tight enough to crack if he so much as shivers. He blinks once before responding.

“We spoke briefly upon disembarking the _Enterprise_ , though not since.” And it's true - the boy had proven himself a worthy colleague in a crisis, though Spock still had his reservations; they had parted company on positive terms, though not as friends, by any means; acquaintances by now, at best, but Spock requires more evidence, of course, of Kirk's character in a multitude of circumstances, in order to logically estimate the young man's worth as a personal confidant. “Is there reason to be concerned about the cadet, Doctor? We parted amicably, and he appeared fine by all generic human standards, if as exhausted as any other member of the crew.” True, it came to mind that the acting Captain had looked strained, his skin sallow as they'd tasted fresh air again, though the effect was aggravated by the fact that the human had insisted upon staying in direct sunlight in order to "soak up the rays" for the moments of Spock's evaluation of his condition. It was an important factor to take into account.

“Is that your professional medical opinion, Mr. Spock?” McCoy shoots angrily, his arms again crossed over his chest as he saunters purposefully forward. “Because mine’s a little bit different." His eyes are fixed on Spock from under the hoods of his lids, the slits of his gaze almost menacing, though they cross over to malicious in conjunction with that smirk - so sharp, so vile. "In fact, mine involves you being discharged if you’re lucky, and jailed if you’re not, for dropping your first fucking officer out on goddamned Deep Space Icicle just because you got your panties in a motherfucking twist!”

The way the man's chest expands, deflates, and expands with such rapidity, with such force is almost impressive - the manner in which his tone slowly crescendos from a ragged, threatening hiss into a shout nearly masterful, beautiful; Spock only regrets having to respond, having to contextualize the event and ruin its effect.

“His conduct -”

“Was justified,” McCoy spits out like cobra’s venom, like white hot coals meant to fester and sear; “considering your blatant display of cowardice as you ran back to the fucking fleet with your tail between your legs.” And Spock’s expression shifts, more blank, more guarded - he sees the fragments of his planet suspended between stars, hears the pitch of that cadet’s impudent voice daring to question him, to challenge; feels the clammy heat of his skin as he presses against that neck just so, the echoing rush of satisfaction as that impertinent boy crumbles, boneless, at his feet.

“He was _right_ , goddamnit,” McCoy growls, close enough that Spock can feel his breath like a mighty wind with every heaving exhale, “and you knew it then as well as we all know it now. You just couldn’t swallow the fact that he’d outthought you once again, could you?”

“My actions aboard the _Enterprise_ were entirely justified,” Spock protests evenly, his own frustration brewing ever closer to the surface.

“He could have _died_ out there, you _fuck_ ,” McCoy thunders to rival any tempest, the pitch of his voice rumbling with enough conviction to lay waste to the coast and call the tides upon them, his heart rumbling hard and deep through those words as they tremble in the room, a whisper like a scream, and Spock dares to think back, dares to question his own certainty at that force, that will, if only for the last fractions of a moment, lost in time.

“And yet he did not,” Spock states with stoic determination - after all, was it not from this very human race that the phrase “all’s well that ends well” first spawned? “It is highly illogical to dwell upon any of the infinite possibilities in a given situation that do not come to pass. True, it was entirely possible that Cadet Kirk might have met his demise on Delta Vega.” He ignores the protective flare in the doctor’s eyes that accompanies the mere mention of so much as the _possibility_. “Similarly, the potential for Mr. Kirk having been selected as supreme leader of a particular genus of indigenous wildlife whilst planetside was equally realistic. Both outcomes possessed the same statistical likelihood. Neither occurred.”

“You glib mother _fucker_ ,” McCoy hisses with all the force of a hurricane, and if Spock lacks the good grace to look chastened, he still feels the resonating _hate_ like a shudder down his spine.

“Regulation clearly states...”

And it’s uncanny, the strength and the speed with which that careening first makes contact with his jaw; it’s more surprise than inattention that keep hims from halting the impact, from deflecting the blow, but it stings with all the humiliation of his childhood, the breaking of vessels and the pooling of blood beneath his flesh like the seeping of shame through his chest - a weight he’d fooled himself into believing that he’d left behind.

“Do I look like I give a rat’s ass about your goddamned _regulation_ , you green-blooded son of a bitch?” McCoy seethes through clenched teeth as he shakes out his fingers, watching with a shine that bathes his gaze as the skin stretched across those thin lips separates, blossoming olive; Spock trails the tip of his tongue across his slick inner lip and cringes against the tang of blood.

“It seems that your interpretation of the phrase ‘do no harm’ presents itself as drastically differentiated from my own,” Spock states pointedly, his breathing carefully controlled as he wipes the trail of green from his chin, trying to retain his composure, ignoring the adrenaline fluttering quick against his pulse.

“You and your fucking pettiness almost cost a man his _life_ ,” McCoy shoots back, and Spock only then notices the carefully-reined edge to those words; that this is more than principle, than a friend defending a friend - this is more than a physician who values human life. ”Keenser’s better suited for command than the likes of you.”

“More of your medical expertise, McCoy?”

And something softens in the other man at, but Spock knows it’s not because of him - knows it has nothing to do with here and now. “After everything was over, after we were limping the fuck back across the solar system, I finally convinced him to let me check him over.” Hazel eyes cloud like the mid-winter sky, murky and dangerous and indicative of the coming storm. “He got nicked by something down there, and I got him to admit that the ‘something’ was a goddamned creature chasing his ass down to be its meal. And whatever it was, the wound was filled with a venom I’ve never seen before; he shouldn’t have been _standing_ with that shit in him, let alone saving the whole damn planet.” The sound of breath whistling through his teeth as he grinds at his molars, trying to save some face, maintain some composure, screeches high against Spock’s sensitive eardrums, and he fights the urge to flinch.

“A couple more hours, Spock, maybe less, without treatment, and he’d have been done for.” And the gravity there is something that doesn’t quite penetrate Spock, doesn’t quite hit home, but instead falls around him like an avalanche, a cave-in, the walls dropping around him, the weight emanating from the man across from him; from a fear and a loss that’s as great as Spock can fathom - and it hadn’t even come to fruition.

“Not to mention he was goddamn frostbit just about everywhere,” McCoy tacks on gruffly, but somehow, it only makes it all the heavier, all the more dense - all the harder to breathe.

“All of which are regrettable,” Spock replies slowly, painstakingly, trying with every word to dispel the ether they’re trapped within, “whilst still managing to fall under the general parameters of occupational hazards.”

And something snaps, then; something tentative and profound, and the weight melts away as a muscle in McCoy’s neck twitches, as his head jerks upwards minutely, the shift of the earth beneath their feet like the Titans rearranging fate; and he’s liberated, free from the pull, and Spock - being Spock - cannot resist curiosity.

“Do you routinely react so strongly to what you perceive to be the unjust treatment of your intimate acquaintances? Or is Mr. Kirk merely the exception to yet another rule?”

Spock’s ready for the right hook that swings his way this time, and he barely has to blink before his arm is up to block, before his fingers are closing around McCoy’s forearm and he’s twisting them both, fluid and frighteningly fast - quick enough to match the frantic rush of blood in veins beneath the skin under his fingertips; McCoy’s breath catches against the crook of his arm as he holds the headlock, skin to skin, and Spock is afforded a single moment to revel in the easy victory before the axis tilts in revelation, before the world makes perfect, impossible sense.

“Fascinating,” he breathes with something strange, something soft - an odd perversion of something close to wonder tinging his voice as his hold relaxes and McCoy ducks free of his grasp. “You have feelings for him.”

McCoy glares hard, but the weight is gone, the heat - Spock can see the way his muscles tense beneath the lines of his uniform, the way his chest rises, stretches tight, falls flat and then rises again, just a little faster, a little more urgent than before - the nerve he’s hit is raw, newly exposed and close to the heart, and the Vulcan wonders idly how he missed it.

“And you don’t deny it,” Spock marvels just a little, brows sloped as he watches a slowly-crawling blush color the doctor’s cheeks; “How extraordinary.”

“You had it out for him from the get-go,” McCoy growls, teeth barred, expression almost feral as his knuckles turn white against the pull of skin on tendon, on bone. “You marooned him out of spite, not duty.”

“I did nothing of the kind.”

“Because you’re above being egged on by a mere cadet, aren’t you?" McCoy sneers, his eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Jealousy’s illogical, Spock. He outsmarted you, plain and goddamn simple.”

“He altered the criteria of the examination -”

“He did what he had to in order to survive." The carefully-spat retort resonates, reverberates around the small quarters, the hollow walls, and the relevance, the significance of that simple, undeniable fact is not lost on Spock - it just doesn't seem to apply. "And you’re damn lucky he made it back in one piece in order do it again, because if he hadn’t, we’d have been dealing with more than one genocide on Federation soil.” Spock stiffens as the image of his planet falling in on itself flashes bright, fixed upon the backs of his eyelids forevermore, the detail vivid against the blackness, the nothing left in its wake.

“And I’d have torn you apart with my bare fucking hands without thinking twice.” And McCoy is merely a breath, a blink of an eye from his face - Spock can feel the way his breath moves the air between them, hard and fast and filled with rage, with indignation - with something _more_ , something situated in the good doctor's chest that presses hard against those pitiful human lungs, Spock suspects; something that drives the air out of them so fast, so thoroughly that it's almost not enough to gasp the next breath - like something's lost in the give and take between.

“You’re good at what you do, Mr. Spock," McCoy whispers shrilly, sinister - and Spock suppresses the shiver that the very tone itself shoots across his spinal cord; "but out in the black, it was James T. Kirk who saved your ass. Who saved the whole goddamned world.”

“He’s an arrogant child,” Spock shoots, a hint of his anger, his frustration seeping through his defenses in the bite that lilts against the words, the way they surge red over his trained facade of calm.

It's all the urging McCoy needs.

“You listen to me, you piece of shit,” he snarls as he surges forward, fist clenching around Spock’s windpipe just a little, just enough; “He’s ten fucking _times_ the man you’ll ever be. He will be great. He will be _legendary_.” McCoy doesn’t blink, hardly even breathes as he holds Spock at arms-length, but the tremble of his fingertips around Spock’s throat betrays his fury, his anguish - the chaos beneath the surface that’s only half-revealed in his words, his actions, thrumming frantic through his veins; and those sharp Vulcan eyes widen just a bit to feel it pulse at his wrist, see it shiver in his neck. “You?” he laughs, and it’s a sinister sound that doesn’t suit him, and they both know it - Spock, though, has never felt more insignificant than he does in that very moment, that window in time; “You’re lucky that I continue to let you simply _be_.”

And for the swiftest of instants, so fleeting as to not have passed at all, Spock can see his reflection in McCoy’s blazing gaze; and there is fear in his eyes as they swim, staring back at him, buried deep beneath the apathy and the condescension, burning ever-dark and fever-bright, barely noticeable but _there_ , and Spock wonders if the other man sees it, if he knows what it is; he covers it quickly, just in case.

“You overestimate your capacities, Doctor,” Spock speaks low, threatening as he strikes the other man just below the collarbone with the carefully-angled heel of his palm, reveling in the sound of the human's discomfort as he moves to reestablish control of the encounter, grabbing for the doctor's arms and pinning them behind his back, driving the man into the nearby wall and clenching his eyes closed as he hears the angry clanging of the items sitting on display nearby, reeling from the impact - his great-grandmother's fine china, he knows, has lost a teacup, considering the resonance of the sound as it shatters on the ground, and he feels a spike of anger coil in his gut; that was his mother's favorite keepsake from her home. Her world.

“James Kirk has consistently undermined authority," Spock's eyes snap open, hostile and direct as they bore into McCoy's - still indignant, still furious even as he stands at the disadvantage, now; undeterred. "He willfully conducts himself outside the parameters of -”

“He hasn’t deserved the shit you’ve thrown at him!” McCoy barks with such force that Spock swears he feels the vibrations in the floor beneath his feet, shaking in the windowpanes. “He didn’t deserve to be humiliated in front of the entire fucking Academy! He didn’t deserve to be left to die!”

“He deserved to be held responsible for his actions," Spock answers stoically, though he's sure that the frustration, the sheer rage that’s bubbling in his stomach, the conflict waiting to be unleashed just a little further, just a little more fully; he's certain that a blind man could see if, could know it was there. "As any member of Starfleet would have been expected to.”

“Your mother would be ashamed of you.” And those words, they're enough to slacken his hold just that slight bit, just enough so that he doesn't notice, can't notice as his mother's face floats in his vision for the barest of seconds, that McCoy’s knee has just enough room, just enough give to wrench back and strike him just below the navel, the blow resonating hard in his gut, giving him just enough pause so that the tables can be turned, so that McCoy has him perfectly pinned to the ground with his heel, the sharp dig of the boot between his ribs a mere inconvenience compared to the sting of defeat, however momentary, however fleeting.

“Doesn’t feel so good, now, does it?” the doctor snarls with a quick dig of his foot into the bone, and Spock weighs the math, the physics, trying to find the right leverage, the right shift of his weight to break free at the opportune moment. “Teach you to hit below the fucking belt.”

As soon as he calculates the appropriate angle, just the right exertion of force, the curve of his spine, McCoy changes the rules once more in that very human way of his, unexpectedly crouching, bearing down with his presence and throwing Spock off his intentions for the split second it takes to brush lithe, lilting fingers against the back of the Vulcan's neck, his intention clear as if it had been shouted, as if it had been screamed.

Every fiber of Spock's being comes to a standstill in that moment.

“You know what the problem is with xenobiology around here?" McCoy speaks low, ominously, the waves of his voice crashing hard against Spock's psyche, against the shell of his ear. "They’re a tad tight-lipped about your kind.” And he can see where this is going, he knows the outcome, impossible as it is, and he's inexplicably powerless to stop it, to act, to _move_ at all; he's never felt so powerless, so stunned still, and it's as frightening to him at his very heart as is the gleam in the doctor's eyes where he hovers like a specter, the promise of death.

“But one of the perks of bein’ a simple country doctor smack in the middle o’ Dixie?” The Doctor's fingers tighten, just a tad, but in just the right place, and Spock feels his limbs tense sharply, outside of his own will - if he'd planned on escaping, the witching hour had come and passed.

“S’hotter ‘n hell down there. Like the motherfucking _desert_.” If there'd been any doubt, and potential for error in Spock's suspicions of what was happening, what was about to happen, they disappear with the dry, arid sweep of those words, all mercy, all... humanity evaporating under the harsh sun of fury and vengeance and hate as the Doctor shifts his hands, and Spock's legs seem to disappear from his awareness. “Now, I can’t rightfully imagine what sorts of characters might come to require my services every once in a blue moon, in a place like that," McCoy shoots scathingly, the smile twisting his features like a poison, one that sears hot and lethal in the pit of Spock's stomach as those contorted lips come close to his ear once more, hissing sharp against his skin; "Can you, Mr. Spock?”

The press against his skin is unexpectedly careful, unconscionably soft; practiced and steady where the bone meets muscle, fingertips sliding against the flesh until pain unimaginable erupts, overtakes Spock's very world as he seizes, his back arching violently before everything dissolves, before all that's left is the foggy intimation of his consciousness swirling, disembodied, and all he is able to see is the pinched, sneering countenance of one Leonard McCoy. He tries to gasp, but his lungs are elsewhere, removed from him - he tries to speak, but there's nothing, his voice has abandoned him; he can see both of McCoy's hands as he stands tall above where Spock lays, powerless at his feet, and logically he knows that the doctor's hold upon him is extinguished; yet all he can feel, the only thing he knows is the burn of that subtle, gentle touch, the torment of it. His calm, his control - the things that protect him from the swirling eddy of everything he does not know how to endure escapes him, flees him with due haste, and all he owns in the universe is that pain alone; that pain and the blackness.

“Learned that from a female tryin’ to help me keep her bondmate calm after he’d contracted Karadorgian flu," McCoy comments casually, conversationally, and his voice is so loud, _too_ loud, like the teeth of a saw breaking the skin, severing bone. "The virus completely undermined all that precious control you seem so keen on maintaining; he was flailing around, screaming all sorts of outlandish things, making one hell of scene in my ER." And Spock's too disoriented, too overwhelmed to notice how it happens, but McCoy is situated just in front of him again, the deep rattle of his voice piercing with such proximity, such loathing. "See, I know what you fuckers can do in a rage, Commander," he states gravely, matter of fact; his eyes bright with remorse, or something close to it, though the determination, the anger still shines stronger. "I also know how to put you in your goddamn _place_.”

“Only showed me a few things, of course," he continues calmly, clinically, and Spock ceases to wonder why the man has done so well in Starfleet, why he's risen as such a favorite son so very quickly, why the surgeons, the best of the best, have sung his praises for months now, even years. "Very simple, half of it only worked by chance, but she was young, and she was scared." McCoy's gaze narrows a bit, focusing in on Spock where he feels the faint suggestions of his heaving chest, the slightest suspicion of just how pathetic he must look, of just how unraveled he's been rendered against his will.

"She taught me how to keep him docile, how to calm him, how to render him compliant to the treatments when he thought I was a threat, when he fought me." Spock watches as McCoy nudges his foot a bit at his kneecap, at the sole of his boot, pushing harder, testing; Spock wants to flinch, because it appears as if it should hurt. Only it doesn't - he feels nothing. And _that_ hurts more.

"That there should last you a good ten minutes," McCoy answers the question he cannot possibly ask; the one he isn't sure he'd voice even if he could; he tries to nod, but he's not sure the intent ever comes to fruition. “Your people have a gift with neuropressure,” McCoy remarks, nonchalant as he rolls up is sleeves a bit, eyes everywhere but on Spock; “a real gift.”

“I think sometimes you forget that you live among humans, Spock," the doctor speaks clear, yet quiet as he folds his legs beneath him and crouches next to his victim, his patient, his prey. "I think sometimes, you forget that half of you is one of us.”

He stretches out parallel to Spock, his legs extended as he props his weight on his palms, eyes raking over the Vulcan's prone, immobile form as he leans down, eyes level and mouth close enough to his ears that Spock has to brace himself for the intensity of his speech when it comes.

“Half of you knows how to feel," McCoy murmurs, but it strikes hard, beats like his heart in his head, bouncing around his skull. "At least half of you knows how to love.”

More than half. _So_ much more than half. And Spock, in that moment, feels something close to terror at what is to befall him.

“Do you think about her, Spock? In your mind’s eye, can see her? All coy and gorgeous, standing right in front of you?” And of course he can, the long lines of her mocha-shaded flesh, the sheen of it brilliant as she moans, the contrast of her skin against his own, the touch of her flesh, the softness of her inner thighs and the way she sighs his name.

“Can you taste her lips on yours?” Like sugar, with the bite of the fine wines he’s been forced to suffer for diplomacy’s sake, only on her tongue it tastes appropriate; on her tongue, it’s something he craves. “Feel how warm she is, how her pulse races?” Like the beating of a drum, the echo of it against the cliff faces, amidst the clouds against a blood red sky, so fast and so strong that he fears for her, sometimes, even as he runs his fingers down her neck to feel it, to revel in the life that thrums there, so sweet.

“Imagine that heat gone, freezing in the ice of a goddamn arctic wasteland after some arrogant bastard popped her out of an airlock and sent her careening into the unknown without so much as a phaser to protect herself.”

His pulse flutters, and his sense of his limbs begins to return, only all he knows is agony - everything so cold, so distant. So sinister and severe.

So familiar, somehow; watching the past through new eyes.

“Imagine that skin, torn and rotting flesh after she’s ripped to fucking pieces by whatever godforsaken monster finds her first,” and he can see it, the way that perfect body might look mangled - the food of his nightmares, the kind that plague him now with such fervor, such fury, in the wake of everything, of all the loss.

“Imagine that pulse, slowing, fading. Weak.”

And if he were anything but Vulcan, if his senses had but remained in limbo a moment or two longer, his control compromised for a second more, he may have sobbed as the words penetrated to his core, the haunting promise of their truth searing like brands from the inside out; as it happens, McCoy only elicits a single teardrop that never falls, never gives in, but that lives nonetheless, undeniable.

“This I picked up by accident,” he drawls carefully, like the savages drew blood from the vein with the careful suck of the syringe. “The female I mentioned,” he continues lightly, his left hand pulling a hypospray from the pouch at his hip, “her connection to her mate was causing him great distress. He couldn’t differentiate her pain from his own, and his will was too strong, we couldn’t control him.” The snap of a vial into the device sends a shock of something foreign through Spock, something sinister and sharp that foreshortens his breath and sends his heart ablaze; “He thought she was in danger, that she was dying, when in truth it was the other way around. She needed the link masked, needed him to stop... feeling her for a time.” He gestures with the instrument vaguely, the low light playing slowly, languid against the glass. “She told me I’d have to inject him with a very specific derivative of theragen, of all things, before he’d calm enough.”

“S’how I know you feel things, and that you feel them fucking deep,” McCoy says softly, emotion creeping into his voice, and Spock can't help the logical admission that sparks at the back of his mind that this, all of this, isn't easy for the doctor, either - that this isn't what he'd wanted it to come to, in the end; not truly. He watches carefully as McCoy’s eyes never leave the hypo in his hand, and Spock knows that McCoy's only half-speaking to him, only half in the present, half lost in his past, his own demons. "Because he was heartbroken when he thought his mate was gone. _Heartbroken_.”

His _own_ heartbreak.

“That telepathic bond,” McCoy murmurs, and Spock feels it as he begins to come back to himself, his mind returning, his grasp on his faculties, his reactions starting to reassert; the sense of that bond where it plays at the edges of his consciousness, the promise of its tentative, powerful beginnings burning, flaring at he grasps at it, touches it to make certain it's safe. “I don’t understand how it works, exactly. But I know that it’s strong, isn’t it? Even at first." He's able to shift his eyes, move his head just a little from the neck to watch as McCoy rises to a crouch at his side. "You can feel her in your mind, can’t you?”

He can feel enough now to know the way the bottom drops out from beneath him, the way his stomach turns at the desperation, at the sickening twist in those words, and his heart races, despite all the control, the tranquility he can muster, regardless of the sheer denial he tries to blanket atop that frantic throb as he clenches his jaw, his fists; helpless.

“Imagine her gone. Imagine her never coming back.” McCoy's voice is barely a whisper, and it's pained enough, _furious_ enough, tattered enough that Spock knows McCoy would tear him limb from limb if he could, if he were the type of man to do it. Spock _knows_ he should be afraid. “Would you like a taste of that?”

And the thought of it, the mere _thought_ of that loneliness, of that _emptiness_ , even now - so soon - it shudders at his nerve endings like a quake, like Armageddon all over again, a black hole at the very center of himself that only grows, only blooms like the end of everything, clawing out from the inside as he gasps against the threat of it, outruns it in his own mind, his control stripped from him, his decorum a memory as he succumbs - from the outside, only his eyes are broken, but they can still see the subtle satisfaction - regretful, mournful though it may be - shining in McCoy's gaze like a forest in flames; it's enough.

“It is not the same,” Spock forces out, desperate - hoarse as his throat goes suddenly dry, his mind still hazy, his senses still dulled. “You are not bound,”

“It’s hell, Spock,” rings a voice in reply that belongs to neither of them, a voice that’s small and scared and shattered, devastated, and in hearing it, feeling it rub raw against the open wounds of his exposed mental frame, Spock thinks he might have a vague inclination of the gravity of this encounter, of what he’s done. “It’s _hell_ ,” McCoy repeats, and there’s the promise of a growl now that sets the world at rights again, but it’s weak, forced - the gravel of emotion at the base of his throat, grinding hard against his vocal cords; “to believe at your very core that you’ve lost the person you care about most in the goddamn world.” And Spock can’t quite explain what happens as those eyes bore into him, tear open his soul and try their damnedest to slice through it in just the same ways, in just the same places that McCoy himself has been scarred; but as they stare against each other, rivals to the same ephemeral space, Spock could swear he feels the doctor in him, can measure the strangled, suffering beat of his heart as he’d pondered a world without James Tiberius Kirk as the cruelest sort of punishment, as he fought through the way that every cell in his body wanted, in that hellish moment, to simply give up and surrender to a grief so consuming, so complete, that Spock, in his compromised state, nearly weeps at its power, at its weight.

“It destroys you,” the doctor breaks the still as he breathes, but only barely; more broken than any sentient being had any right to be, to sound. “And you did that to me without a second fucking thought.”

And Spock understands, now. He understands.

In an instant, McCoy's fingers are around his neck again, and Spock's aware enough now that the contact resonates with thoughts again, strong enough to notice, his mind attentive enough now to hear: _‘Trellium poisoning, nerve pinch, nitrous oxide,’_ and the list continues like a litany, sending the blood in Spock’s veins running cold from his heart through his limbs and back again, chilling and fierce as it freezes, solidifies into the dead weight of realization that shrinks his stature and widens in his eyes, black like the night, the unknown, the very threat that he fears.

“I could kill you right now," McCoy hisses under his breath, his eyes glassy, almost crossed as he leans close, too close, into Spock's face. “In any number of ways." And Spock knows it now, knows it intimately; "And that drives you up a fucking wall, doesn’t it?”

Star above, but it _does_.

“Bones." It takes a while for them both to process the intrusion, the voice that cuts through their world, their standoff like a knife, and they both stumble, their attention diverted to the open door behind them, to the man who stands there, blocking out the sun.

“Jim?” McCoy chokes a little, eyes wide as they meet the cadet's shining blue gaze, as Kirk takes in the sight before him, analyzes and draws his conclusions without commentary or condemnation, though his lips are set in as tight a line as Spock has ever seen.

“Bones, that’s enough,” Kirk speaks finally before settling his eyes one last time on McCoy, the look filled with significance, with weight, and it lingers even after the man has turned on his heel and leaves the dying sunlight to steam though the doorway undisturbed; cooler than it should be, Spock notes, and darker, even, than when Kirk has obscured its light.

“The damsel to your shining knight, Doctor?" Spock asks, tone low but smooth as he begins to straighten, testing his strength, the responsiveness of his limbs. "Or your prize stallion, perhaps?”

“Damn straight,” McCoy retorts as he stands and moves to leave; “And don’t you forget it, you callous fucking prick.”

Spock stalls his retreat with a single sentence: “I could have you court martialed for your actions here.”

McCoy pauses, one foot outside the door already, and though he doesn't retrace his steps, he does turn back, leaning his weight into the door frame. “You could,” he concedes, and Spock doesn't like the awareness, the assurance in his expression as he nods in acknowledgment, without any hint of being chastised, of feeling threatened. “But on what charges, exactly? Assault?” The little chuckle, self-deprecating though it is, doesn't settle well with Spock. “You can’t possibly think that would hold up given your recent track record.”

And they’re both posturing a tad, like that terrible human card game, but it’s well played, in the end - they’ve made their points here, and both of them know it won’t be mentioned again - a tacit understanding between two men in love.

“You’ve abused your privilege as a medical officer," Spock states the obvious, his face blank but his mind reeling - surely the doctor knows the gravity, the seriousness of such a transgression. “That alone would be enough for any formal charge to stand against you.”

The last thing that the Vulcan expects in response is a grim, tired smile.

“That hypospray was empty, Spock,” the doctor says, voice gruff and strained. “Might want to get that mind-reading voodoo of yours checked out. Seems it’s not as sharp as it should be, else you’d have called my bluff.”

Spock stands silent, the space between himself and McCoy yawing like the great abyss, and neither man says anything as the implications of that simple truth sink in; as Spock's gaze follows McCoy's to where the hypospray had been discarded, useless and impotent on the edge of his desk.

Empty. The vial - empty.

“Accept defeat, Commander.” And with that, McCoy takes his leave.

_______________________________

 

“What the fuck was that about?” Jim asks as he shrugs off his uniform jacket, the pull of his muscles prominent, defined against his clinging undershirt as he stretches, the tan of his skin stark against the cotton where it rides and tugs, revealing morsels of his flesh in segments, in strips; temptation manifest.

“The Commander and I just had a few loose ends that needed tying,” Bones shrugs his own clothing off, tugging the jacket and the shirt beneath off in one fell swoop and shaking them out with a snap, draping them over the chair next to the wardrobe.

“Bullshit.” He doesn’t have to be looking at Jim to know exactly how those hips are cocked, how those eyes are narrowed at his back - he can feel Jim like the breath in his lungs, and he knows. He always knows.

“They’re tied now,” McCoy mutters with an edge of finality, hoping against all reason, all precedent that Jim will just let this one _go_ ; “So it’s fine.”

“He outranks us both, you know.”

And Bones snorts at that as he twists his ring from his pinky and sets it carefully in the glass tray on his bedside table. “Not for long, he won’t.”

“May I remind you that I’m still on academic suspension?” There’s defeat in Jim’s voice, frustration and self-criticism that huffs around the room with the same stagnant, cloying presence as blood on Leonard’s hands, the same weight as Jim lets himself fall atop the bed they’d been sharing now longer than they’d spent sleeping apart; his limbs sprawled and scattered, hanging over the edges as his chest rises, falls in a deep, calculated cadence that speaks to his discontent, his disconcertion.

“Only because the planet was nearly destroyed just a few days ago. Jesus,” Bones drops down next to his lover, hand settling on the younger man’s shoulder and massaging idly, working the muscle until tension gives way to comfort, to calm. “Give ‘em some time.”

Jim turns his head so that his cheek skims the comforter, so that his nose brushes Leonard’s; so that his every exhale catches on Bones’s upper lip. “He could ruin you if he wanted to.”

“Don’t be so goddamn dramatic, Jim,” he sighs against that blonde head as Jim ducks his chin a little as he heaves a heavy sigh, leaving his jawline splayed against Leonard’s parted lips. “It’s fine,” he assures Jim as he slides an arm around Jim’s shoulder blades, drawing him closer, relishing his warmth, the way he gives in now without the pretense of a fight; the way they fit. “Just something I needed to take care of. S’done now. Drop it.”

“It’s not worth it, Bones.” And there are things in those words that cut straight to Leonard’s core, that speak volumes about things that he’d hoped they’d gotten past, they’d overcome.

“Look at me.” He’s surprised that Jim doesn’t resist him, doesn’t hide; and he’s grateful as he stares into those sky-blue eyes that show the world every little fucking thing you could ever want to know about the soul behind them, if only you know how to read them, how to speak their tongue.

“Three years, I’ve stayed here because you were here. Three fucking _years_ , Jim,” he emphasizes carefully, his drawl coloring the words, their intensity - the passion that makes them matter. “And they’ve been damn good years, because _you_ were in them.”

“I went out into the dark, disease-ridden vacuum of fucking _nothing_ on a goddamn clanging _deathtrap_ for you, you moron,” he goads a bit with a smile, and the pressure in his chest releases just a little, lessens as he see the corners of Jim’s mouth quirk upward. “So don’t you tell me that it’s not worth it. Because you’re all that’s worth _anything_ , Jim.” He presses the center of his lips to the corner of Jim’s mouth; not quite a kiss, really, but somehow, it’s more intimate. “Just you.”

Leonard can feel the heat in Jim’s cheeks more than he can see the blush; can feel the tension, the uncertainty before he hears it in Jim’s voice; “I’m...”

“How long were you standing there, in Spock’s office? How much did you hear?” Bones asks quickly, and Jim pauses, shifting his gaze just a tad and locking eyes with his lover, like a key sliding into place, the missing piece of a puzzle; and blue snap to hazel like the poles of the universe drawn across infinity to this very spot, to one another, heart against heart and skin against skin, breath mingling with panted, frantic breath until their lines dissolve and they bleed into one another, pulses ebbing into the ether as they meet half way, throbbing through their lips as they kiss, as they swell and bruise, tender and numb at the same time, so sure of each other, so removed from all else. And Leonard drinks Jim’s soul, his fucking _soul_ , and it hurts every time to know the loathing there, to know the doubt like it’s his own, filling his chest with slow, crawling black, and he clutches Jim all the closer, all the tighter, hoping against every goddamn hope he’s ever known that the fire at the center of himself - the core of him that burns for Jim and Jim alone - can sear away that uncertainty, can forge something stronger from the ashes, unbreakable.

“I meant it, Jim, all of it” he murmurs as he breaks away, speaking against the center of Jim’s throat, the curves of his lips writing truth against the pulse in that neck; and Jim shudders as those words rush over him, through him, racing with his blood to the heart of him and sticking there, solid - true. “I’ve always meant it.”

“I don’t know how to be what you see me as,” Jim whispers, the sheer weight of that admission - that glimpse of a weakness he fights with everything he is - requiring silence, confidence, secrecy. “I don’t know how to be that man. I’m _not_ that man.” Then softer, closer to his heart; “I’m not worth all that.”

Leonard’s knuckles brush across Jim’s cheek, and Jim’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into the touch, turning more fully into his friend’s body. “You are, though,” he breathes, and when Jim flinches at the earnestness, the honesty in his words, Leonard catches his chin between his thumb and his finger, turning them both to cross gazes, to see eye to eye. “To me, there is absolutely no question that you _are_.” McCoy doesn’t miss the stutter, the catch in Jim’s breath, the way his respiration sounds heavier, or the way he shivers once, twice in Leonard’s embrace; he doesn’t miss it, but he doesn’t mention it, either. It just is - they just are.

“And some day,” Leonard breathes against the curve of Jim’s brow as he presses his lips to Jim’s forehead, the kiss soft, delicate - fragile, but so filled with feeling that it can move mountains, stop the world; “I’m going to prove it to you. Someday, you’ll understand just how fucking remarkable you are, Jim Kirk. Someday I won’t have to convince you.” He leans back before bending, pressing their foreheads together and letting his eyes slide shut for a moment as they breathe in time. “I’m gonna make damn sure of it.”

Jim takes a long, steadying breath, his hand reaching out, playing at Leonard’s fingertips for an instead before snaking up to rest upon his chest, an anchor in the middle of the stormy sea: “I’m not used to people fighting for me.”

“Well, _get_ used to it,” Bones murmurs in the small space between them, letting the promise, the pledge in those words settle before he presses their mouths together, seals his vow; “Because I don’t have any intention of stopping.”

His tongue slides between Jim’s lips, and he’s welcomed as Jim opens wide and presses them flush together, chest to chest until they can barely breath for the force of one another’s weight. There are hints of flavor everywhere in Jim’s mouth, and Bones savors them - the bitter aftertaste of espresso, of apple cores and coffee grounds and all the discarded, mediocre things Jim thinks he is; but all Bones can taste is the sweet burn of the stars and the raw tang of iron at the split in his lip - blood and life and infinity against his tongue. He sucks harder, desperate, drinking in all the things that they are, that they can be - the sensations and the heat and the hideous, miraculous, soul-splitting _want_ that spills off Jim’s lips - and Jim yields, breaks a little, but Leonard won’t let the pieces get lost, won’t let him fall through the cracks; he’ll hold him together as long as he needs, kissing the honey from his lips like the starving, like the damned.

He knows that one day, Jim’ll taste it, too.


End file.
